90: Chapter 90 The Carrion Game Under the Golden Throne (Part 2)

He couldn't stand it.

Of course he couldn't stand it.

Every embedded memory and every inscribed directive within his body growled in low tones.

It made him imagine the moment he drew his blade—imagining the scene where that Guardian Spear split open gilded wine cups, split open silk robes, and split open those hypocritical smiles.

Imagining himself clearing away these parasites one by one, returning a sense of purity to Terra.

With his strength, he could slaughter his way through the entire banquet hall alone, past these wastes who couldn't even hold a gun steady.

He could even trample all the noble estates; no one could stop him.

The training of the Adeptus Custodes was designed to counter C'tan-level threats.

The security forces of these scavengers weren't even enough for a warm-up in his eyes.

But he knew better; the blades of the Custodes alone could not kill all the parasites, and would only bring trouble to the Emperor.

And so, he suppressed it.

All the anger and disgust were forced back into the depths of his heart, along with the impulse to swing his blade.

Not because he feared them, but because he could not.

What would happen after he slaughtered his way through?

Tomorrow, the supply of nutrient paste to the Imperial Palace would "accidentally interrupt," the Psykers offered to the Emperor would decrease, and the Servitors maintaining the Golden Throne and the stasis fields that kept the Emperor in existence would spiral out of control.

The day after tomorrow, the Adeptus Arbites would launch an investigation into the Custodes for "extrajudicial enforcement."

The day after that, the Ecclesiarchy would hint in their sermons that the Custodes had been corrupted by Chaos, requiring a trial of faith and purification.

And the day after that, the Inquisition would have the Grey Knights from Titan assemble.

They wouldn't confront the Custodes directly; they couldn't.

But they could hit the Custodes' weakness, hit the Emperor's weakness, in the most despicable and insidious ways.

They controlled Terra's resource supply chain, every logistics node from the Agri-Worlds to the Imperial Palace warehouses.

They controlled every bit of supply for the Emperor's life-support system.

The Custodes could guard the Golden Throne, block external Chaos and Xenos, and slay any enemy that approached the Emperor.

But they could not guard the Emperor's breakfast (the Psykers), nor the energy for the life-support system.

This was their greatest trump card.

Not armies, not wealth, not political influence.

But the fact that the Emperor still needed to eat, still needed a physical body to be sustained.

As long as the Emperor remained on the Golden Throne, as long as the Emperor still needed to be sustained...

He! Trajann Valoris had to tolerate these parasites, had to watch them devour every Master of Administratum's family.

He had to act as a silent observer in this hypocritical banquet hall—one who did not participate, but also did not intervene.

He was the Emperor's prosthetic limb, the blade the Emperor used to protect himself.

But a prosthetic cannot decide for the Emperor not to eat breakfast, and a blade cannot sever the chains that maintain the Emperor's life.

He wasn't kidnapped by force; he was kidnapped by the Emperor's vulnerability after ascending the Golden Throne.

He was kidnapped by this damned, interlocking power structure.

And the Emperor's current vulnerability was the cruelest irony in this universe.

A theoretical god, a being who controlled the Astronomican and guided human civilization, a monarch who ruled a vast empire spanning the galaxy.

Yet he could not feed himself, could not breathe on his own, could not protect his own flesh from the erosion of time, and could not even move an inch.

He needed others to feed him nutrient paste, others to maintain his life-support system, and the souls of Psykers to keep him from ascending to godhood.

He needed others to guard that door for him, and others to run this massive empire for him.

And those "others" were not the most loyal soldiers, not the most noble servants, and not the wisest sages.

They were these scavenger nobles.

Because they monopolized enough resources and networks to keep this logistics line running and to fill the void in the Imperial power structure.

The Emperor's greatness and the Emperor's paralysis together created the cage for these parasites, and also created the cycle of fate for the Master of Administratum.

That old man sitting in the shadows reviewing his life was truly impressive; he saw through this point after such a short time of reflection.

It wasn't that he didn't want to resist, or didn't want to reform, or was born willing to be a corrupt maggot.

It was that he finally saw through all the interlocking logic: the Master of Administratum must be corrupt, because without corruption, the power he held could not function; he could not balance the interests of the nobility, the Ecclesiarchy, and the Adeptus Mechanicus, and could not maintain the surface peace of Terra.

He also knew the nobles had to devour the Master of Administratum, because they produced nothing and could only live by scavenging, only maintaining their decent lives by feasting on the legacy of the Master of Administratum's family.

At the same time, he also understood:

Only the fall of a Master of Administratum could take away enough middle-level "clever people"—those who truly understood administration, logistics, and resource allocation.

If they weren't purged periodically, they would accumulate enough seniority and connections on Terra to eventually threaten the status of the nobility.

This wasn't simple division of spoils; it was a carefully designed "elite elimination mechanism"—regularly clearing out the most capable people to ensure Terra's power remained forever in the hands of the most incompetent but most obedient.

The Custodes had to tolerate the nobles because protecting the Emperor required a supply chain, and the nobles were needed to maintain logistics.

The Emperor had to rely on the Custodes because he could no longer move, no longer personally guard his own empire.

Every link was logical; every individual was rational.

They were all struggling for their own survival, all following this set of rules polished by time.

But together, they formed an eternal meat grinder.

A machine that constantly devoured the Master of Administratum, devoured the common citizens at the bottom, and devoured the vitality of the Empire.

Move one link, and everything collapses.

This wasn't a problem of a few bad individuals, nor even a matter of a group being corrupted.

It was a perfect, self-consistent structure, polished to the extreme over ten thousand years, gaining momentum in its day-to-day operation.

And every Master of Administratum, from the moment they took that seat, became a part of this structure.

They became a part destined to be crushed within this meat grinder.

"The Master of Administratum must be corrupt."

Trajann Valoris repeated the phrase in his mind; his tone held no anger, no mockery, only a bone-deep powerlessness and a quietly germinating expectation.

"Must."

Not "enticed," not "occasionally," not "certain Masters of Administratum."

It was a must.

This position had transformed from the sacred authority of Malcador's era, an important arm in the hand of the Emperor's closest friend, into what it was now.

A machine part designed to require corruption to function, a sacrificial offering fattened up for slaughter, a cargo tag labeled "Property of Scavengers."

Corruption was not the Master of Administratum's fall, but his function; being devoured was not the Master of Administratum's failure, but his fate.

He adjusted his grip on the spear, his knuckles slowly relaxing.

He did not linger, continuing his patrol along the fixed route, his steps still steady, still silent.

In the center of the banquet hall, The New Lord Chancellor was still smiling stiffly.

He was still learning from his predecessor's example, vaguely dealing with the nobles' demands.

He was still cautiously displaying his "authority" to that pack of hyenas.

He didn't know that it wasn't authority; it was a cargo tag.

A tag marking his place on the cutting board, estimating his meat yield, and waiting for him to be fattened up for slaughter.

He could not act, could not move.

This was the boundary of the Custodes' duty—he was not The New Lord Chancellor's advisor, not the nobles' overseer, and not the Empire's reformer.

He was the Emperor's prosthetic, the Emperor's guardian; his duty was singular: to guard the Golden Throne and the Emperor's safety.

And a prosthetic cannot speak for its master; a guardian cannot interfere with a fate that lies outside his scope of duty.

But their eyes today were no longer saying "waiting for him to fall," but rather "we are deciding when this New Lord Chancellor will fall."

These were two completely different logics of power.

The former was scavenging, a plunder dependent on rules; the latter was hunting, a transgression attempting to control the power of the Emperor and the Regent.

Scavenging, the Emperor allowed.

Hunting was the exclusive domain of Imperial authority, a red line that no one could touch.

When they dared to hunt a member of the Council of the Twelve High Lords, the next step would be daring to hunt the Emperor—they were seeking death!

The time had not yet come.

The Emperor still needed to eat, still needed these parasites to maintain logistics.

Terra still needed surface peace, still needed this structure to keep running.

And that young man outside was still smiling at the scavengers, still dreaming of controlling power.

He didn't know he was just the next course; he didn't know his joy was merely the comfort before death.

So be it.

Trajann's figure gradually disappeared into the shadows of the banquet hall, leaving only a cold and silent back.

Let him smile a little longer.

This was his final joy, the only bit of dignity remaining for him as a "sacrificial offering not yet devoured."

The candlelight still flickered, the clamor still unceasing.

The nobles' flattery and the clinking of glasses intertwined, masking hidden calculations and desires.

In the corner, the old Master of Administratum remained curled up in silence, his eyes staring blankly ahead. He finally understood that the Master of Administratum was only needed because Terra required a mortal representative to manifest the legitimacy of the Empire's rule.

Though such mortal representatives also included the Adeptus Arbites and the Navigatorss, the Arbites had the violent support of the Officio Assassinorum and the Inquisition as well as the backing of Imperial Law, and the Navigatorss possessed an indispensable rarity.

So, who else but the Master of Administratum could be placed on the dinner table to sustain such a political landscape? They were destined to be the only choice for sacrifice.

In the center, The New Lord Chancellor still smiled stiffly, his fingertips stroking the signet ring that symbolized his authority.

But a cyclical game of scavenging, beneath the shadow of the Golden Throne, was nearing its end.

The gears of Terra continued to turn, slowly and coldly.

Trajann remained that silent guardian, waiting in the shadows.

Remembering the names of those who crossed the line, and waiting for a new moment.